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@ 27.055 MHz: Ad Astra; Days Of 1912, Cavafy's Visit To Venice
During your vacation in Venice, Poet, did you
visit the beaches and, if so, did you see those
two handsome boys, Tadzio and Jaschu?--whose friendship
was more than they allowed it to appear to be, in
order to evade the vociferous condemnations of
old prudes and haters, and their silly, societal
expectations. You appreciated their affection, the
erotic desires that adolescence had bestowed upon
them, and the surreptitious manner in which, ever
cautiously, the sought to satisfy the urges.
You did not mind to consider them beautiful---a far
more appropriate word than any other that anyone
else might care to use. Clad in their bathing
suits during the afternoons, their bare feet
left imprints on the sand, as the sea's gentle
breeze danced playfully through theif long and
silken hair. At certain moments---and out of the
peering, peeping eyesight of the prejudiced, but
not beyond your careful and appreciative observation,
they clasped each other's hand; just for a moment, an
insignificant duration of time not much noticed by
most of the people lounging on the beach; but for them, for
Tadzio and Jaschu, it meant and signified something more
profound, something of which they were delightedly aware
even though, juvenescent, their experience of mundane
life, and of homogenic Love, was understandably limited.
After dusk fell, and the sky began to constellate, these
two young men---now clad formally for the evening's
sumptuous meal in the Hotel's grand Dining Hall---stepped
outside for a more private encounter. Carrying their shoes,
they walked along that line at which the sand becomes
damp from the last reach of the waves that the moon
delivers; and they seemed to enjoy the sensation of wetness
their semi-sheer socks accumulated. Around the bend, and
out of the line of sight of everyone (including yourself), a
small covert, shielded by granite that the tide had not yet
worn away, received them: there, they kissed and caressed
each other, without fear of discovery or intrusion. All too
soon, just as they had to return to their families' rooms,
you had to depart Venice, to resume your work in the
Irrigation Office, Alexandria. And though you regretted
absenting yourself from them, you also knew that some
Poet, somewhere and sometime (perhaps you, or perhaps
some lesser) should write about them---Tadzio and Jaschu,
lovers and boyfriends during those summer weeks that
Love, Who is God, allowed you, bearing witness, to share
with them . . . .
J-Called
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